White 
West  land  Echoes 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ESTLAND 
HOES 


V 


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estlanb    Ctfjoe* 


A  BOOK  OF  POEMS 

BY  NED  WHITE 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  NED  WHITE. 

BlSBEE  ORE  PRESS. 


BISBEE.  ARI/ONA 
1916 


Snbex 


At  the  Gate.  14 

Babe  of  the  San  Simon  35 

Beyond  the  Hills  41 

Bones  of  the  Desert  39 

Don't  Be  a  Knocker 64 

Down  Along  the  Hassayamp 

Forsaken IT 

Fugitive,  The Si> 

Funeral  Range,  The 60 

Ghost  of  Cactus  Flat 43 

Grand  Canyon,  The 66 

Gringo  Wizzard,  The : .   34 

Happy  Jack  47 

Hermit,    The                                     .... 27 

Hobo  Miner,  The 51 

Hobo's  Farewell,  The G2 

Hope  48 

Horse   Thief,  The  ..  54 

In  Campo  Santos     .     7 

In  the  Cactus  Land  ]:', 

In  the  Land  of  Manyana .    .     30 

Introduction         ...  :; 

Jack,  the  Silent   '  25 

Knocker,  The  65 

Legend  of  the  Pi  mas  82 

Life  Has  Been  Only  a  Day  12 

Mothers  of  Men  5i; 

Mud  Digger,  Th«-  57 

My  Bast  Friend,  Adios  t;7 

Old  Prospector,  The  «i 

Only  a  Greaser  37 

Only  a  Miner ..............  10 

Outlaw's  Lament,  The  Hi 

Tombstone  In  Early  Days  2:; 
What  Will  You  Do? 
When  the  Law   Is  Satisfied 


Sntrobuction 

Ye  who  have  heard  the  desert  voices, 

Ye  who  have  heard  the  wild  things  cry; 
Ye  who  have  camped  in  lonesome  places, 

'Neath  the  stars  of  the  western  sky; 
Ye  have  heard  the  tales  repeated 

By  the  campfires,  o'er  and  o'er; 
Told  by  gray  haired,  old  prospectors— 

These  simple  tales  of  desert  lore. 

And  ye  who  dwell  in  distant  cities, 

Ye  may  scoff  and  pass  them  by; 
Ye  -may  call  them  myths  or  fables 

From  the  country  of  blue  sky- 
Still  to  me  each  line  is  sacred 

In  the  simple  stories  told, 
Of  the  Westland's  lonesome  places, 

Of  the  land  of  wealth  untold. 


COPYRIGHT,  iyi6, 
BY  NED  WHITE. 

BISBEE  ORE  PRESS 


Cctjoes 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  HASSAYAMP 

In  remote  and  silent  places 

Down  along  the  Hassayamp, 
Mid  the  foothills  of  the  Bradshaws 

Where  the  placer  miners  camp, 
Where  they  used  to  dig  the  nuggets 

From  the  ground  in  days  of  yore, 
Now  they  sit  Dy  smoldering  camp  fires, 

Telling  tales  of  wealth  galore, 

Telling  of  the  Horsethief  canyon, 

Telling  of  the  Vulture  peak, 
Of  the  big  strike  down  at  Weaver, 

Of  the  Frenchman's  lucky  streak; 
Telling  of  the  Harquhalas 

That  was  once  a  booming  camp, 
'Way  down  toward  the  Colorado — . 

Westward  from  the  Hassayamp, 


Ccfjoes 


Stop  with  me  and  hear  the  stories 

By  the  campfires  burning  low, 
By  the  ashes  of  the  camp  fires 

That  were  kindled  long  ago, 
Hear  the  stories  of  the  mountains, 

Stories  of  the  desert  wide; 
Hear  them  tell  of  good  old  timers, 

Who  have  crossed  the  big  divide. 

Here  and  there,  in  lonesome  places, 

Twixt  the  canyon's  rocky  walls, 
Where  the  flowers  bloom  in  summer 

Where  the  snow  in  winter  falls, 
Where  the  hungry  coyotes  wander, 

Where  the  giant  cactus  wave, 
Here  and  there  a  ruined  cabin, 

Hem  and  there  a  lonely  grave, 

Now  and  then  some  old  prospector 

With  his  gray  head  bending  low, 
Sits  and  tells  the  passing  strangci, 

Stories  of  the  long  ago— 
May  their  memories  live  forever, 

'Round  the  ashes  of  their  camp, 
the  foothills  of  Bradshaws— 

Down  along  the  Hassayamp, 

NoTK     The  II:iss;iy:iMipa  Kivrr,   in  Arixmia. 


IN  CAMPO  SANTOS 

Yes,  Senor,  I'm  very  feeble, 

Heart  grown  weary,  foot  steps  slow, 
But  I  once  was  proud  and  happy- 

Senor,  that  was  long  ago; 
'Fore  the  snow  of  many  winters 

Left  its  traces  on  my  brow; 
'Fore  the  sun  of  many  summers 

Made  me  as  you  see  me  now, 

Why  I  weep?     Senor,  you  ask  me, 

Why  the  bitter  tears  do  flow? 
I  am  thinking,  ever  dreaming, 

Of  the  happy  long  ago- 
Thinking  of  a  young  ranchero 

In  a  valley,  green  and  wide, 
Of  a  Mexican  caballero 

And  a  blushing  Mexican  bride, 

How  the  saints  -did  smile  upon  us, 

Sent  a  babe  to  cheer  our  way- 
How  we  treasured  little  Alma, 

Worshipped  her  from  day  to  day, 
See  the  white  clouds  yonder  sailing. 

By  the  gentle  breezes  blown; 
As  light  her  heart  was  as  the  cloudlets 

Til  a  maiden  she  had  grown, 


8  USlestlanb  Ccljoes 


Thus  I  weep— Senor,  forgive  me— 

Thus  the  bitter  tears  do  start! 
Ch,  the  mem'ries  that  are  living 

In  this  poor,  old,  aching  heart! 
Must  I  tell  the  wretched  story 

How  a  handsome  gringo  came, 
Wooed  and  won  our  little  darling, 

Killed  her  happiness  with  shame? 

Cast  a  shadow  o'er  her  young  life? 

Broke  her  heart  of  love  and  trust? 
Left  her  then  alone  to  perish, 

Like  a  rosebud  in  the  dust; 
Like  a  flower  that's  lost  its  fragrance, 

Or  a  poor  forbidden  toy; 
Like  a  bird  that  has  been  crippled 

By  a  cruel,  thoughtless  boy! 

With  her  poor  head  bowed  in  sorrow, 

Never  did  she  raise  her  face — 
Now,  at  last,  in  Campo  Santos, 

She  has  found  a  resting  place! 
Adios!     I  soon  shall  follow 

Where  her  fait' ring  foot  steps  led; 
To  the  Pueblo  de  los  Muertos — 

To  the  City  of  the  Dead, 

NOTE — Campo  Santos,  meaning  cemetary. 
f'url.lo  <]<>  los  Mvu'rtos.  town  or  city  of  tli^  dead. 


THE  OLD  PROSPECTOR 

He  has  gone,  the  old  prospector! 

With  his  burro  and  pack  saddle, 
Rusty  now  his  pick  and  shovel, 

Rusty  now  his  old  canteen, 
Never  more  on  lonesome  hill  sides, 

Or  the  desert's  wasted  places, 
Looking  for  the  hidden  treasures, 

Is  the  sturdy  fellow  seen, 

No  more  by  the  camp  fire  gleaming 

Is  he  sitting  now  and  dreaming 
Of  the  ivy  covered  cottage 

And  the  promises  he  made, 
He  has  crossed  the  silent  river, 

To  the  peaceful  Eldorado; 
On  the  mystic  shores  up  yonder 

He  is  resting  in  the  shade, 

Silent  now  the  old  log  cabin 

In  the  canyon  deep  and  lonely, 
With  its  doors  on  rusty  hinges 

In  the  night  winds  swinging  free- 
Where  he  dwelt  with  life  contented 

In  the  good  old  days  no W( vanished; 
Never  prince  in  stately  mansion 

Was  more  satisfied  than  he! 

NOTK-  The  old  time  prospector  is  only  a  mining'  man. 


10  fcUrstlanb  €ctjoes 


ONLY  A  MINER 

Blow  the  shrill  whistle,  call  him  to  labor, 
Hurry  him  in  to  the  darkness  below; 

Away  from  the  sunlight,  to  gloom  and  to  danger, 
To  peril  that  only  a  miner  can  know. 

Cheer'ly  he  goes,  the  big  hearted  fellow, 
To  meet  every  task  with  muscle  and  will; 

Toiling  awa>  by  the  light  of  a  candle, 
With  pick  and  shovel,  with  hammer  and  drill, 

He  seeks  not  for  praise  nor  for  laurels, 

Though  many  a  brave  deed  we  recall- 
Brave  acts  of  his  never  recorded. 

Because  he's  only  a  miner,  that's  all! 

Why  gather  the  men  in  the  shaft  house? 

What  is  it  that  lies  on  the  hill  side? 
''Killed  in  the  mine,"  sadly,  they  answer; 

Another  poor  fellow  has  crossed  the  divide, 

Tell  the  sad  news  to  the  wife  who  is  waiting — 
For  her  above  all  he  lived  for  in  love; 

Say  he  has  gone  from  the  dark,  lower  levels — 
Gone  to  the  station  of  light  that's  above, 


£tt)ors  II 


Just  another  new  grave  in  the  canyon     down 

yonder, 
And  a  home  plunged  in  sorrow — they  miss 

him  tonight! 

May  he  rest  in  peace!    He  was  only  a  miner! 
He  was  true  as  a  friend;  he  did  what  was 
right! 


NOTK -  One  of  many  who  are  killed  by  accidents  in  the    bi 
mines  everv  year. 


12  Olltsaaiit)  Ccijoes 


LIFE  HAS  BEEN  ONLY  A  DAY 

See  the  boy  with  golden  hair 
In  the  garden,  bright  and  fair, 

Watching  in  his  merry  glee 
The  ever  busy  little  bee 

As  so  eagerly  it  goes 
To  sip  the  honey  from  the  rose, 

This  is  in  life's  early  morn 
When  all  happiness  is  born; 

Could  he  always  be  a  boy, 
'Mid  nature's  beauty,  love  and  joy! 

But,  Ah  me,  how  very  soon 
Morning  hours  have  turned  to  noon? 

The  garden  scene  has  passed  away, 
Scattered  dead  the  flowers  lay, 

And  the  boy,  so  happy  then, 
Mingles  now  with  busy  men— 

Giown  to  manhood,  true  and  tall, 
When  the  evening  shadows  fall! 

The  shades  of  night  have  fallen  now 
On  an  aged,  drooping  brow; 

Eyes  grown  feeble,  heart  grown  old, 
Silver  locks  that  once  were  gold; 

Faltering  lips  that  softly  say: 
"Life  has  only  been  a  clay," 


Ctlwti  13 


IN  THE  CACTUS  LAND 

This  is  the  beautiful  picture 

That  is  seen  in  the  Cactus  Land- 
Ail  Arizona  sunset, 

Painted  by  nature's  hand; 
All  of  tlie  glowing  colors 

At  twilight  are  combined 
In  this  wonderful  picture 

By  God's  own  hand  designed, 

In  rapture  I  look  upon  it 

At  its  ever  changing  glow, 
While  in  the  quiet  valleys 

The  darker  shadows  grow, 
No  artist's  hand,  though  cunning, 

Could  paint  the  picture  true— 
The  sky  all  gold  and  amber, 

The  hills  all  purple  and  blue! 

Purple,  blue  aiid  golden, 

With  the  valleys  green  below, 
And  the  foot  hills  in  the  distance 

Where  the  giant  Cactus  grow— 
The  picture  fades  in  the  gloaming 

And  the  night  birds  softly  call, 
Then  a  peaceful  .benediction 

Seems  to  hover  over  all! 

NOTE— Meaning  an  Arizona  Desert. 


14  <ULlrstland  Ccijoes 


AT  THE  GATE 

Together  they  stood  at  heaven's  gate, 

Meekly  there  to  learn  their  fate, 
One  was  a  beggar,  lank  and  spare; 

The  other  was  a  millionaire— 
As  they  stood  at  the  portal 

Of  shining  gold, 
These  are  the  tales 

That  the  pilgrims  told: 

"I  was  only  a  tramp,"  said  the  ragged  one; 

"Born  on  earth  a  poor  man's  son; 
"Home  or  comfort  I  didn't  know, 

"When  I  was  in  the  World  below; 
"Only  an  outcast,  when  I  died 

"Not  a  single  mortal  cried, 
"Poverty  was  my  greatest  sin— 

"Please,  Saint  Peter,  let  me  in!" 

The  rich  man,  in  his  lofty  way, 

Unto  the  good  saint  then  did  say; 
"I  had  wealth,  with  all  its  charms; 

"A  child  of  luxury's  tender  arms, 
"Into  the  midst  of  plenty  I  was  born; 

"And  when  I  did,  the  world  did  mourn, 
"For  I  was  one  of  the  upper  class— 

"Now,  Saint 'Peter,  let  me  pass!" 


15 


Saint  Peter  then  said  with  a  sneer; 

"Your  gold  will  have  no  value  here, 
"You  went  the  pace  in  the  world  below, 

"A  noble  act  you  did  not  know; 
"Your  ragged  partner  may  pass  through, 

"But  Satan  has  a  berth  for  you!" 


16  (Zftieatlaufc  (Ecljoes 


Blown  o'er  the  sands  of  the  desert 

When  the  shades  of  night  hang  low, 
Comes  a  voice  through  walls  of  darkness 

That  circle  the  camp  fire's  glow; 
Not  sweet  strains  of  melody 

On  the  night  winds  tossed, 
But  more  like  a  wandering  spirit, 

Or  the  cry  of  a  soul  that  is  lost, 

I  think,  as  I  sit  and  listen 
To  the  coyote's  fiendish  yell, 

I  am  a  hunted  outlaw- 
He  is  an  outlaw  from  hell! 

Here  by  the  smoldring  campfire 
My  lonely  vigil  I  keep, 

Weary  from  the  days'  long  travel, 
And  that  devil  won't  let  me  sleep, 

Tired,  hungry  and  footsore, 

Just  think,  ye  peaceful  men, 
By  the  first  rays  of  morning 

I  must  be  moving  again, 
An  outlaw  alone  on  the  desert 

Under  the  starlit  sky; 
I  wonder  which  is  despised  most— 

That  skulking  coyote,  or  I!     • 


<£cf)oe*  17 


FORSAKEN 

Think  of  a  woman's  life— 

A  mother,  but  not  a  wife- 
Here  in  a  world  of  strife 

With  all  its  false  splendor; 
Left  like  a  broken  reed, 

friendless,  alone  in  need — 
Must  she  for  mercy  plead 

With'  none  to  defend  her? 

Think  of  her  in  disgrace, 

Shame  written  on  her  face, 
Wandering  from  place  to  place— 

Shunned  and  forsaken! 
Think  of  a  woman's  trust, 

Think  of  a  villain's  lust, 
Censure  her  if  you  must— 

For  his  life  she  has  taken! 

Gloat  o'er  her  misery, 
Ye  of  society; 

Blind  is  your  vanity 
To  the  woes  of  humanity, 

Scoff  at  her  once  fair  name 
Now  she  is  bowed  in  shame, 

Tell  the  world  of  her  blame- 
Is  that  Christianity? 


18  aUestlanb  €cijoes 


"Guilty,"  the  verdict  read; 

"Guilty,"  the  jury  said- 
The  trial  then  was  ended- 

Poin^  ye  at  her  with  scorn, 
The  creature  there  forlorn— 

Our  law  was  offended!  . 

And  ye  who  testified, 
Are  ye  now  satisfied? 

Though  before  God  ye  lied, 
Are  ye~  contented? 

That  in  a  prison  cell 
Now  she  is  doomed  to  dwell, 

There  in  a  living  hell- 
Till  dead  or  demented? 


OftlcstUnb 


WHEN  THE  LAW  IS  SATISFIED 

Hear  the  hour  of  midnight  tolling 
In  the  tower  o'er  the  way, 

Sending  echoes  through  the  prison 
Where  the  wretched  convicts  lay; 

Come  with  me  and  look  upon  them 
'Neath  the  ghastly  prison  light, 

Come  and  see  their  haggard  faces- 
See  their  faces,  blanched  and  white, 

Hear  them  murmur  in  their  slumber, 

Look  on  them  with  pity  then, 
When  they  dream  of  home  and  loved  ones, 

Of  the  time  when  they  weie  men; 
Of  the  time  when  they  were  happy, 

Gliding  down   life's  golden   stream- 
Come  and  hear  their  sad  hearts'  yearning. 

Come  with  me  where  the  convicts  dream- 
It  is  said,  in  yonder  garden 

Nothing  now  but  weeds  will  grow, 
But  if  with  care  it  were  attended 

There  the  purest  flowers  would  blow. 
Why  not  then,  ye  Christian  people— 

Y-e  who  by  the  laws  abide- 
Why  not  help  these  fallen  brothers, 

When  the  law  is  satisfied? 


20  aaieatUuiD  Ccljoes 


Patient  waiting,  ever  longing, 
For  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

When  the  prison  gates  will  open— 
From  its  gloom  they'll  pass  away, 

Do  not  brand  them,  do  not  shun  them, 
Do  not  point  at  them  with  scorn, 

When  they've  done  their  awful  penance- 
Remember,  they  were  free  men  born! 

Lift  them  up  and  give  them  courage! 

They  are  human!     They  are  men! 
Don't  despise  them!     Do  not  drive  them 

Back  into  this  hell  again! 
Speak  to  them  with  words  of  kindness, 

Show  to  them  the  brighter  side, 
Help  them  to  regain  lost  places— 

When  the  law  is  satisfied! 


<£rf)0ffi  21 


WHAT  WILL  YOU  DO? 

you  help  him  along? 

He's  a  brother  of  man, 
He  is  fighting  the  battle 

The  best  he  can. 
Do  you  know  what  'twould  mean, 

A  kind  word  from  you, 
To  a  lost  fellow  creature, 

Downcast  and  blue? 


you  give  him  a  hand? 

He's  on  the  down  grade; 
His  life  was  a  failure 

Like  the  plans  that  he  made, 
Why  not  assist  him? 

Show  him  the  way? 
The  poor  weary  wanderer, 

Gone  far  astray! 

Do  you  know  what  it  is 

To  be  wanting  a  meal? 
The  world's  bitter  scorn, 

Did  you  never  feel? 
Did  you  ever  ask, 

With  a  half  smothered  sob, 
For  a  chance  in  this  life? 

For  a  chance  for  a  job? 


22  fcfckstUwD  Ccljoes 


Do  you  know  what  it  means 

When  hope  is  no  more? 
Have  you  e'er  tried  and  lost? 

Was  your  heart  ever  sore? 
That's  what  it  would  mean, 

A  kind  word  from  you, 
A  clasp  of  the  hand. 

Might  help  him  pull  through! 


you  help  him  today 
While  he  still  is  in  need9 

you  coldly  pass  by, 
His  pleadings  not  heed, 
When  a  smile,  or  a  wond, 
Or  a  clasp  of  the  hand, 
Would  give  him  new  courage, 
Would  help  him  to  stand? 

His  burden  is  heavy! 

Will  you  make  it  light? 
Will  you  speak  words  of  cheer 

To  make  his  way  bright? 
He's  a,  brother  of  man, 

Downcast  and  blue- 
It  kindness  will  help  him, 

What  will  you  do? 


Wedtlanb  <£rtjors  23 


TOMBSTONE  IN  EARLY  DAYS 

Yes,  I  have  seen  sad  pictures 

Taken  from  life's  seamy  side, 
I  have  heard  the  stories  repeated 

How  somebody's  darling  died; 
I  have  heard  wild  tales  of  the  westland 

In  song  and  story  told — 
Of  the  days  of  western  gun  men, 

Of  the  days  of  blood  and  gold, 

Back  in  the  early  eighties, 

In  the  days  of  Tombstone's  fame, 
In  the  wake  of  the  dauntless  miners 

The  gamblers  and  outlaws  came; 
When  painted  dance  hall  beauties 

Rode  on  the  same  stage  coach 
With  honest  men  and  women, 

From  White  Pine  and  Pioche, 

In  the  days  of  the  trusty  six-shooter 

When  men  feared  not  the  law, 
When  they  planted  them  under  the  daisies 

If  they  were  slow  on  the  draw, 
Silent  now  are  the  dance  halls, 

The  gamblers  and  bandits  at  rest— 
They  have  faded  and  vanished  forever 

From  Tombstone,  the  Gem  of  the  West, 


24  ftfclestlanb  Ccfjoes 


Yes,  I  have  seen  sad  pictures, 

Taken  from  life's  seamy  side, 
I  have  heard 'sad  stories  repeated, 

How  somebody's  darling  died— 
May  God  bless  true  men  and  women, 

Long  since  gone  to  rest, 
Who  stood  for  law  and  order 

In  the  winning  of  the  west, 


NOTI-:  Many  of  the  first  to  arrive  in  Tombstone,  Arizona. 
came  from  the  K<>'d  and  silver  camps  of  NYvada  and  California, 
l>y  way  «>f  the  old  sta^e  i-oach. 


25 


JACK,  THE  SILENT 

Eastward  from  the  Harquhalas 

At  a  place  called  Cactus  Flat, 
Lived  and  toiled  an  old  prospector, 

Just  a  gray,  old  Desert  Rat; 
Free  of  heart  and  open  handed, 

All  were  welcome  to  his  camp— 
We  used  to  call  him  "Jack,  the  Silent," 

The  best  old  man  on  the  Hassayamp! 

Liked  he  was,  by  all  who  knew  him, 

Liked   because  his  heart  was  good — 
There  was  something  in  his  make-up 

That  we  never  understood, 
Some  great  secret  in  his  memory, 

Something  'neath  his  old  white  hat, 
Some  great  sorrow  borne  in  silence, 

In  the  heart  of  the  desert  rat, 

Many  a  weary,  passing  stranger, 

Derelicts  on  the  whirlpools  cast, 
Were  helped  and  sent  along  rejoicing 

By  the  silent  man  with  the  buried  past, 
Years  of  hardship  told  their  story 

And  the  desert  claimed  its  own- 
Where  he  lived  and  helped  the  weary, 

There  the  old  man  died  alone, 


26  fcfclefitlaub  Ccijoes 


There  he  left  a  letter  written, 

Left  this  message,  carefully  penned; 
"God  forgive  you,  Bill,  I  cannot— 

"Her,  I  trusted;  and  you  my  friend," 
Then  we  knew  the  old  man's  secret, 

Why  he  came  west  to  forget; 
In  the  past  there  was  a  woman — 

In  the  east  she's  living  yet. 

"Jack,  the  Silent,"  now  is  sleeping 

On  the  slope  of  Cactus  Flat, 
A  noble  heart  is  stilled  forever 

In  the  grave  of  the  Desert  Rat- 
Eastward  from  the  Harquhalas 

Lie  the  ruins  of  his  camp, 
There  we  still  may  hear  the  story 

Of  the  best  old  man  on  the  Hassayamp. 


NoTK     A  Desert  Rut  is  u/i    old    prospector    who    frequents 
I  IK-  desert,  like  nistnv  others  he  wandered  awav  and  died. 


<t?rljofS  27 


THE  HERMIT 

Where  the  rays  of  the  sunset  linger 

Far  up  on  the  western  range, 
Where  the  snowy  peaks  and  lofty 

Never  vary,  never  change, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  snowcaps, 

Mid  the  ever  sighing  pines, 
Stands  a  cabin,  half  in  ruin, 

Covered  o'er  with  creeping  vines, 

In  the  doorway,  looking  westward, 

Stands  the  hermit,  gray  and  old, 
Gazing  over  vale  and  summit 

Where  the  sky  has  turned  to  gold, 
He  sees  the  landscape  fading 

In  the  evening's  mellow  glow, 
Hears  the  laughing  water  murmur 

In  the  canyon  for  below, 

Sees  the  eagle  flying  homeward 

With  a  grand  and  graceful  ease, 
Hears  the  squirrels  loudly  chatter 

In  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
Sees  the  rabbit  in  his  frolic 

Scamper  through  the  open  gate, 
Hears  the  owl  in  his  eyrie 

Hooting,  scolding  at  his  mate, 


28  3&estlatU)  Ccljoes 


Sees  the  branches  of  the  pine  trees 

In  the  breezes  bend  and  sway, 
Then  the  bright  lights  of  the  city 

Down  the  valley,  far  away, 
There  he  stands,  the  lonely  hermit, 

Til  the  light  of  day  has  fled— 
Then  he  turns  into  the  cabin, 

Bows  in  sorrow  his  gray  head. 

There  he  sits  alone  and  ponders 

While  the  bright  stars  shine  above, 
Thinking  of  a  child's  caresses, 

Thinking  of  a  woman's  love; 
Dreaming  of  a  cheerful  fireside, 

Of  a    babe  and  gentle  wife- 
Then  the  past  unfolds  before  him 

And  reveals  a  wasted  life! 

Far  away  his  thoughts  then  wander, 

O'er  the  mountains,  wrapped  in  snow, 
In  fancy  once  again  he's  standing 

On  the  shores  of  long  ago; 
Visions  of  loved  ones  departed 

Fill  his  dim  old  eyes  with  tears- 
He  sees  again  a  sweet  face  smiling 

Through  the  mists  of  faded  years, 


He  sees  again  a  village  church  yard 

Wherein  rare,  sweet  flowers  bloom, 
Sees  a  headstone  made  of  granite 

O'er  a  low,  moss  covered  tomb, 
He  reads  again  the  brief  inscription; 

"God  receive  my  soul  at  last;" 
He  hears  the  songs  of  birds  that  mingle 

With  the  echoes  of  the  past, 

Hears  his  baby  calling  "Papa" 

With  an  accent  sweet  and  clear- 
Well  he  knows,  the  aged  hermit, 

That  bright  angels  hover  near, 
When  at  last  the  siiv'ry  moonbeams 

Creep  across  the  cabin  floor 
And  the  pine  trees  whisper  to  him; 

They  are  gone  forever  more, 

There  he  lives  alone,  forgotten, 

Far  up  on  the  western  range 
Where  the  snowy  peaks  and  lofty 

Never  vary,  never  change, 
Where  the  rays  of  sunset  linger 

High  up  in  the  rocky  glen- 
Undisturbed  there,  unmolested, 

Hidden  from  the  haunts  of  men, 

NOTE  — A  real  hermit,  who  lived  in  the  Final  Mountains  of 
Arizona,  well  remembered  by  old  timers. 


30  fcfclestlant)  Ccljoes 


In  the  land  of  Manyana, 

Where  the  Yaqui  river  flows, 
Once  there  lived  a  Senorita, 

Pure  as  any  flower  that  grows, 
Youth  and  beauty,  hear  my  story, 

Hear  the  tale  I  now  impart 
Of  a  happy  little  maiden, 

Of  a  woman's  broken  heart, 

Years  ago  there  came  a  stranger 

To  the  sunny  land  of  rest, 
To  the  land  of  Manyana, 

Where  with  peace  a  home  was  blessed. 
He  was  weary — long  he  lingered 

In  Romero's  fair  abode, 
Welcomed  there  by  dark  Anita— 

In  her  brown  eyes  pleasure  glowed, 

Innocence  in  all  its  beauty 

For  the  Gringo  had  a  charm- 
Still  her  father,  soul  of  honor, 

Little  thought  there  would  be  harm, 
When  the  soft  tongued  Gringo  villain 

Told  the  maid,  the  story  old. 
Of  a  love  that  never  falters, 

Of  a  heart  that's  never  cold. 


31 


Coy  Anita  learned  to  love  him, 

Thought  that  all  his  vows  were  true 
Until  the  day  that  he  departed, 

Never  bidding  her  adieu, 
Years  have  passed  and  all  the  sunlight 

From  her  pathway  long  has  flown, 
And  the  love  that  she  then  cherished 

Now  to  bitter  hate  has  grown, 

Old  Romero,  soul  of  honor, 

Is  at  rest  on  the  estate 
Where  a  gray  haired  Mexican  woman 

Tells  the  tale  of  love  and  hate; 
Yes,  she  tells  the  neighbors'  daughters, 

When  the  evening  shadows  fall, 
How  she  used  to  love  a  Gringo— 

Oh,  so  handsome,  fair  and  tall! 

Eagerly  the  maidens  listen 

When  they  hear  Anita  speak; 
Sad  are  they  when  teardrops  glisten 

On  her  hollow,  wrinkled  cheek, 
Adios!     Her  heart  was  broken, 

Trampled  like  a  faded  rose- 
In  the  land  of  Manyana, 

Where  the  Yaqui  river  flows, 

NOTE— The  Land  of  Manyana,  meaning    th<>    Land   of  To 
morrow. 


32  (E&eatlaufc 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  PIMAS 

By  the  Superstition  Mountains, 

Where  Salt  River  wends  its  way, 
Through  the  fertile,  sunny  valley, 

Where  the  Indian  legends  say 
That  a  princess  of  the  Pimas 

On  the  mountain  long  ago, 
As  a  sacrifice  was  offered 

That  the  tribe  in  strength  should  grow, 

Many  days  the  sun  was  hidden 

By  a  cloud  as  black  as  night, 
All  the  wicked  then  did  perish, 

Died  of  famine  and  of  blight, 
And  the  spirit  of  the  princess 

Led  them  o'er  the  mountain  crest 
To  the  valley  of  Salt  River, 

Where  the  chosen  ones  were  blessed. 

Sacred  now  is  this  tradition, 

Handed  down  from  sire  to  son, 
Telling  of  the  Pima  people, 

How  the  peaceful  tribe  begun; 
How  the  padres  came  among  them— 

Knelt  among  them  on  the  sod- 
Told  them  of  the  mighty  white  man. 

Told  them  of  the  white  man's  God, 


33 


Showed  them  how  to  build  their  houses, 

How  to  till  the  virgin  soil, 
How  to  train  the  water  courses, 

Taught  the  children  how  to  toil; 
Told  them  how  to  reap  the  harvest 

In  the  gold-en  summer  days, 
How  to  care  for  the  afflicted — 

Showed  them  all  the  white  man's  ways, 

Built  a  mission  by  the  river 

Where  the  faithful  ones  would  tryst, 
Where  they  learned  of  blessed  Mary, 

Learned  to  love  the  name  of  Christ- 
In  the  vallev.  calm  and  peaceful. 

Aged  ones,  infirm  and  lame, 
Tell  this  legend  of  the  Pimas, 

Tell  of  how  the  white  man  came, 

Sing  the  praises  of  the  white  man, 

At  the  closing  of  the  day,t 
By  the  Superstition  Mountains 
.  Where  Salt  River  wends  its  way; 
Sing  the  praises  of  the  princess, 

Bv  whom  the  tribe  was  blessed, 
In  the  valley  of  Salt  River, 

In  the  garden  of  the  west, 

NOTK  -The  Pima  Indians  were  always  friendly  to  thewhit.- 
sett  U-rs  in  Salt  River  Valley. 

Padres,  moaninff  the  Spanish  priests 


34  (UUestlanb  €ti)ocs 


THE  GRINGO  WIZARD 

In  Manyana  Land,  long  ago, 

'Mid  the  mystic  hills  of  Mexico, 
'Neath  the  tranquil,  sunny  skies, 

Where  love  or  romance  never  dies, 
There  the  simple  natives  tell 

That  a  Gringo  once  did  dwell— 
They  tell  of  wondrous  power  h-e  had, 

Tell  of  his  deeds,  both  good  and  bad, 

From  the  hills  the  blight  he  drove, 

Planted  a  wonderful  cigarette  grove, 
And  to  their  hearts  great  joy  did  bring 

When  he  opened  the  mescal  spring; 
From  the  milkweed  and  eggplant,  too, 

A  beautiful  custard  tree  he  grew— 
In  lowly  huts  these  tales  are  told 

When  firelight  gleams  and  nights  are  cold, 

"Adios!"  they  say,  and  wonder  why 

That  such  a  genius  as  he  should  die; 
Dusky  children  still  repine 

For  he  promised  them  a  rock  candy  mine,  • 
In  Manyana  Land,  where  the  mescal  flows 

Sleeps  the  wizard  in  calm  repose, 
Where  the  gentle  zephyrs  blow 

O'er  the  mystic  hills  of  Mexico, 

NOTK  Mescal  is  a  liquor  made  from  the  plant  of  tin-  sa im 
mune;  it  is  said  that  one  drink  would  make  a  jarkrabhit  fight  a 
bear. 


€ct)0ffi  35 


THE  BABE  OF  THE  SAN  SIMON 

At  the  foot  of  the  Chiricahua  Mountains, 

Down  in  a  grassy  vale, 
Cochise  and  his  painted  warriors 

Were  camped  on  their  last  war  trail. 
They  did  not  know  that  warning 

To  the  paleface  settlers'd  flown, 
West  to  the  Sulphur  Spring  Valley, 

East  to  the  San  Simon, 

The  chieftains  were  seated  in  council, 

In  the  lodge  by  the  campfire's  glow; 
They  planned  their  attack  for  the  morrow 

On  the  lonely  ranches  below, 
When  the  cry  of  a  sentry  'roused  them, 

And  the  hills  resounded  at  large 
The  startling  blare  of  a  bugle 

That  sounded  the  cavalry  charge, 

The  skirmish  soon  was  ended, 

Cochise  to  the  mountains  had  fled, 
Leaving  the  squaws  and  papooses 

And  most  of  his  warriors  dead, 
The  soldier  that  guarded  the  prisoners, 

The  squaws  and  papooses  half  wild, 
Found  in  their  midst  a  golden  head— 

A  blue  eyed,  pale  faced  child. 


36  a&iestlanb  Ccfjoes 


In  the  old  fort  on  the  prairie 

The  story  yet  is  told, 
How  they  loved  a  blue  eyed  maiden 

Whose  hair  was  the  color  of  gold; 
They  tell  how  the  stern,  old  captain 

Guarded  her  as  his  own, 
In  the  old  fort  now  abandoned 

Down  in  the  San  Simon, 

The  flowers  have  bloomed  and  faded 

Many  a  summer  since  then, 
The  desert  has  changed  to  a  garden 

By  the  ceaseless  progress  of  men- 
Back  in  an  eastern  city, 

A  woman  now  grown  old 
Dreams  of  the  days  of  her  childhood, 

Wh-en  her  silvery  locks  were  gold, 

Cochise  and  his  tribe  have  vanished 

Over  the  big  divide; 
And  unmolested  the  ranchers 

Inhabit  the  valley  wide— 
A  few  old  timers  among  them 

From  memories  of  their  own 
Tell  of  the  waif  of  the  Chiricahuas, 

Of  the  babe  of  the  San  Simon, 

NOTE  — Cochise  was  a  well  known  Apache  t-hicf  who  terror 
ized  white  settlers  in  Southern  Arizona,  and  made  his  last  stand 
in  his  strong-hold  in  the  Dragoon  Mountains,  north  of  Tombstone. 


Ccijoe*  37 


ONLY  A  GREASER 

He  was  only  a  Greaser,  the  story  goes— 

Which  means  a  Mexican,  I  suppose- 
In  a  Mexican  mining  camp,  they  say, 

A  thousand  lives  he  saved  one  day, 
The  train  that  came  with  cars  of  freight 

On  the  side  track  was  to  wait 
For  right-of-way  far  up  the  line 

With  a  load  of  powder  for  the  mine, 

The  train  men  and  the  engine  crew 

Had  left  the  train — as  they  sometimes  do- 
Beyond  the  track  they  went  that  day, 

To  a  board jng  house,  just  over  the  way, 
Some  little  children  playing  near 

Sent  up  a  cry — their  shouts  of  fear 
Were  heard  by  men,  who  running  came, 

Aghast,  when  they  saw  the  car  a-flame, 

A  thousand  lives  in  danger  then- 
Helpless  children,  women,  men— 

A  common  Mexican,  standing  by, 
Saw  the  danger,  heard  the  cry; 

He  ran  to  the  engine  without  fear 
And  took  the  seat  of  the  engineer, 

His  face  reflected  a  brave  heart's  joy — 
Yet  he  was  only  a  Mexican  boy. 


38  Oiiestlanb 


He  blew  the  whistle  and  rang  the  bell, 

Smiled  and  waved  a  last  farewell, 
Opened  then  the  throttle  wide 

And  down  the  grade  the  train  did  glide 
Around  the  curve,  beyond  the  hill— 

A  mighty  crash  and  all  was  still— 
A  cloud  of  smoke  on  the  mountain  side 

Showed  where  the  Mexican  hero  died! 

There  below  the  border  line, 

Near  the  old  Pilares  mine, 
Stands  a  monument  over  the  grave 

Of  the  boy  who  died — the  town  to  save, 
"Only  a  Greaser,"  we  heard  men  say, 

A  common  Mexican,  by  the  way- 
Sleep  in  peace,  thou  noble  one! 

Thy  name  still  lives,  thy  work  well  done! 


NOTI:     .J«-sus  (iarcia  saved  the  town  of    Naroxari.    Sonora. 
Mexico,  in   1907.     This  is  a  true  story. 


30 


BONES  OF  THE  DESERT 

They  found  him  there  on  the  desert 

Where  he  wandered  away  and  died, 
With  his  old,  gray  head  on  a  Boulder, 

An  empty  canteen  by  his  side; 
In  the  canyon  just  below  him 

Where  the  giant  cactus  stand, 
They  found  an  old  pack  saddle 

And  his  camp  kit  in  the  sand, 

Was  it  gold  that  lured  him 

On  the  desert  there  to  fall? 
Was  he  just  another  victim 

Who  had  heard  the  desert  call? 
Tenderly  they  laid  him 

In  a  shallow  grave  to  rest, 
His  tattered  coat  for  a  pillow, 

Withered  hands  across  his  breast, 

None  knows  what  joys  or  sorrows 

Were  hidden  in  his  breast; 
None  knows  what  his  life  was 

Before  he  came  out  west; 
None  knows  what  awful  tortures 

He  suffered  ere  he  died, 
With  his  old,  gray  head  on  a  boulder, 

An  empty  canteen  by  his  side! 


40  Miefltlaub  Cctjors 


Who  knows  but  in  the  Eastland 

There  may  be  living  yet 
A  mother,  a  wife  or  a  sister, 

Those  loved  ones  who  never  forget? 
What  his  name  was,  where  he  came  from, 

It's  sure  will  never  be  known, 
For  the  desert  keeps  its  secrets— 

When  it  has  claimed  its  own, 


NOTE  -Many  prospectors  have  h«en  lost  in  this  manner. 


(Idlest lanb  £ci)ors;  41 


BEYOND  THE  HILLS 

It  was  evening  and  the  sun's  last  ray 

Was  bidding  its  adieu  to  day, 
Casting  shadows  o'er  the  glade 

In  the  orchard  fair,  where  lovers  strayed; 
Hand  in  hand  they  wend  their  way 

Down  the  paths  where  the  wood  nymphs  play. 

They  said  goodbye  in  a  shady  bo  wet- 
On  the  river  bank  in  the  twilight  hour- 
He  out  west  to  the  Golden  State, 

She  with  patient  heart  to  wait— 
A  nameless  joy  his  bosom  thrills 
As  he  wanders  away  beyond  the  hills, 

Oh,  how  bright  our  youthful  dreams! 

Oh,  how  bright  the  future  seems! 
Alas,  the  happy  little  maid 

Saw  the  joys  of  girlhood  fade! 
Sorrow  now  her  young  heart  fills— 

So  few  return  from  beyond  the  hills! 

There  is  a  legend  often  told 

Of  rainbow  gleams  o'er  a  land  of  gold, 
And  we  never  learn  the  sordid  truth 

Till  our  hair  is  gray  and  we've  lost  our  youth; 
Yet  our  hearts  with  rapture  thrill 

As  we  chase  the  rainbow  over  the  hill, 


42  (UlesUanb  Ccijoes 


HOPE 

Look  not  back  to  buried  sorrows 

In  the  past  that  bring  you  pain, 
Think  not  of  the  joys  now  vanished 

For  the  past  comes  not  again; 
Live  to  cheer  those  who  surround  you, 

Do  not  worry,  do  not  pine, 
But  improve  the  living  present— 

For  the  present  still  is  thine, 

Go  then  forth  to  meet  the  future, 

Try  to  play  a  manly  part, 
Though  the  shadows  be  forboding 

Meet  them  with  a  fearless  heart; 
Now  and  then  a  kind  word  spoken, 

Here  and  there  a  helping  hand, 
Will  assist  a  tottering  brother, 

Help  some  weary  one  to  stand, 

At  the  end  of  this  life's  journey. 

When  the  race  of  life  is  run, 
A  reward  there  will  be  waiting 

For  the  good  that  you  have  done- 
Blessing  there  for  all  your  efforts, 

All  the  good  cheer  that  you  gave 
As  you  travelled  o'er  life's  highway, 

From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 


43 


THE  GHOST  OF  CACTUS  FLAT 

On  the  map  of  Arizona 

There  is  a  mining  camp, 
A  little  place  called  Weaver 

Close  to  the  Hassayamp, 
Where  the  silence  now  is  broken 

By  the  sounds  of  the  Octave  mill, 
Where  the  Mexicans  dig  for  placer 

In  the  shadows  of  Rich  Hill, 

In  that  little  camp  of  Weaver, 

On  a  frosty  winter's  eve, 
I  heard  this  little  story 

That  I  could  not  all  believe, 
Told  it  was,  by  Mickey  Dolan, 

As  by  flickering  fire  we  sat, 
About  a  desert  phantom, 

Or  the  ghost  of  Cactus  Flat, 

He  said  that  many  years  ago 

One  night  he  made  his  camp 
Close  by  the  sacred  waters 

Of  the  dear  old  Hassayamp, 
1  he  silvery  moon  had  risen 

O'er  the  eastern  mountain  crest, 
When  by  the  smoldering  camp  fire 

Heliad  laid  him  down  to  rest, 


44  aHestlanb  Ccljoes 


The  willows  by  the  river 

Were  waving  in  the  breeze, 
And  the  laughing  limpid  water 

Sang  its  sweetest  melodies, 
The  calm  of  peaceful  slumber 

Over  him  did  creep- 
He  was  fast  approaching 

The  borderland  of  sleep- 
When  on  the  midnight  stillness 

Suddenly  there  came 
A  voice  from  out  the  thicket 

That  called  aloud  his  name, 
And  before  his  startled  vision 

There  came  an  awful  sight— 
A  skeleton  was  standing 

Within  the  pale  moonlight. 

Its  fleshless  jaws  were  moving 

AS  though  it  fain  would  speak, 
One  bony  hand  was  pointing 

Toward  the  top  of  Vulture  Peak, 
Mickey  gazed  in  terror 

At  the  specter,  mute  and  dumb. 
Till  in  a  husky  whisper 

The  horrid  thing  said;  "Come!" 


Ccijors  45 


It  turned  and  glided  from  him 

With  proud,  majestic  ease, 
Into  a  rocky  canyon 

'Neath  the  swaying  willow  trees- 
When  with  a  sudden  impulse 

Mike  got  up  from  his  bed, 
Determined  then  to-  follow 

Where  his"  ghostship  led, 

Deep  into  a  gloomy  cavern— 

The  walls  were  damp  and  cold— 
In  one  corner  of  the  place 

He  saw  a  heap  of  gold; 
A  pile  of  yellow  nuggets 

As  large  as  cobble  stones, 
And  near  by  laid  the  skeleton, 

A  crumbled  mass  of  bones, 

He  didn't  take  the  treasure, 

But  in  haste  he  went  away 
And  decided  to  come  back  again 

By  the  light  of  coming  day, 
The  next  that  he  remembered 

The  sun  shone  on  the  land, 
With  sparkling  water  dancing 

Over  the  golden  sand. 


46 


MleaUanb  Ccijoes 


But  his  ghostly  midnight  visitor 

Had  left  no  trace  behind— 
Although  he's  sought  for  many  years 

The  cave  he  cannot  find, 
When  Mickey  told  the  story 

I  saw  his  old  eyes  gleam- 
It  might  have  been  all  fancy, 

Or  a  H  assay  am  per's  dream! 


NOTK     Huilsavamprrs,  old  timers  <m  flu-  Hassayampa. 


(KUcstlanb  CctjofS  47 


HAPPY  JACK 

There  is  a  cabin  up  yonder 

That  stands  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
The  walls  all  crumbled,  and  falling, 

Where  the  stray  winds  enter  at  will 
Through  the  door  hanging  loose  on  hinges 

That  are  rusty,  bent  and  brown- 
Well,  sir,  that  cabin  is  haunted, 

It  is  said  by  the  folks  here  in  town. 

Long  years  ago,  I  remember- 

I  was  a  tenderfoot  then- 
Indians  were  bad,  hereabout,  sir, 

And  there  were  some  bad  white  men, 
Among  them  was  one  called  "Hc.ppy" 

For  the  want  of  a  better  name; 
A  crack  shot,  all  'round  sport,  sir, 

Ready  for  any  old  game, 

Whether  the  play  was  for  money, 

Or  only  a  game  for  fun, 
Whether  they  played  with  cards  or  dice, 

Or  whether  with  horse  or  gun, 
It  made  no  odds  to  Happy; 

He  would- gamble,  shoot  or  ride, 
Bet  his  bottom  dollar, 

Then  let  his  luck  decide, 


48  Hlfstlanb  Cctjoes 


At  last  the  heartless  damsel, 
The  fickle  goddess  of  chance, 

Ceased  to  smile  upon  him, 
Gave  him  a  frowning  glance; 

Then  Happy  turned  to  the  highway- 
One  cold  winter's  night 

He  held  up  the  stage  on  the  summit- 
Then  artfully  vanished  from  sight, 

A  big  reward  was  offered 
And  posses  of  stern  faced  men 

Went  out  to  hunt  for  Happy- 
He  was  an  outlaw  then! 

"I  will  give  one  thousand  dollars," 
The  grim  old  sheriff  said; 

"To  the  man  who  brings  him  back  again, 
"Whether  alive  or  dead," 


In  the  old  cabin  up  yonder, 

There  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
Lived  a  poor,  sick  woman, 

The  widow  of  Tombstone  Bill, 
With  two  of  the  brightest  youngsters 

That  ever  were  seen  in  these  parts, 
Their  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven 

And  pure,  trusting  love  in  their  hearts, 


49 


While  both  were  at  play  one  morning 

There  'neath  the  murmuring  pines, 
Around  the  hill  from  the  cabin 

They  picked  wild  grapes  from  the  vines, 
Without  a  thought  of  danger 

Their  childish  play  to  mar- 
They  were  the  fearless  youngsters 

Most  mountain  children  are, 

A  rifle  shot  above  them, 

A  whistling  sound  o'er  head, 
As  on  its  deadly  errand 

A  singing  bullet  sped— 
Then  came  a  cry  from  the  branches, 

A  wild  and  savage  yell, 
And  down  into  the  playhouse 

A  wounded  panther  fell, 

A  voice  rang  out  on  the  stillness; 

'"I  will  save  you,  do  not  fear; 
11  Hurry,  babies,  to  your  mother; 

"To  the  cabin,     Do  you  hear?" 
And  down  the  hill  side  toward  them, 

With  gun  in  hand  he  sped— 
Happy  Jack,  the  outlaw, 

With  a  price  upon  his  head! 


50  (LfclfstUinD  Ccfjoes 


He  saw  the  children  passing 

Safe  within  the  cabin  door, 
Then  turned1  he  toward  the  timber, 

There  to  hide  himself  once  more- 
But  too  late;  he  was  discovered, 

Just  above  him  in  the  glen, 
With  their  rifles  aimed  and  ready, 

Stood  the  sheriff  and  his  men, 

Now,  they  say,  the  place  is  haunted. 

It  may  be,  I  don't  know, 
But  the  posse  murdered  Happy 

By  that  cabin  years  ago. 
Folks  here  say  at  hour  of  midnight 

A  voice  cries  loud  and  clear, 
Saying,  "Babies,  run  to  mother; 
save  you,  do  not  fear," 


Things  have  changed  about  here,  mister; 

Gun  men  now  are  very  few, 
Some  have  gone  to  other  diggings, 

Some  are  sleeping  'neath  the  dew, 
Someone  wrote  upon  a  headstone 

The  epitaph  in  these  words  ran: 
"Here  sleeps  Happy  Jack,  the  outlaw; 

"Here  sleeps  Happy  Jack,  the  MAN," 


TOestlaub  Cdjoeg  51 


He  was  only  a  hobo  miner 

Who  drifted  from  place  to  place, 
But  a  bright,  good  hearted  fellow, 

With  a  handsome,  honest  face, 
Never  dreaming  of  the  future, 

Living  on  from  day  to  day, 
Like  the  birds,  in  spring  time  going 

To  the  northlands,  far  away, 

Far  from  sunny  Arizona 

To  Montana's  snowy  plains, 
And  returns  to  blue  sky  country 

When  the  birds  return  again, 
But  now  his  journey's  over, 

We  will  see  him  never  more, 
For  he  has  crossed  the  river 

To  rest  on  the  other  shore, 

He  was  only  a  hobo  miner, 

When  the  roads  of  life  he  trod- 
It  there  is  a  heaven  for  hobos 

He  is  resting  there  with  God, 
One  pleasant  summer  evening, 

In  a  western  mining  town, 
The  streets  were  filled  with  people, 

Passing  up  and  down. 


52  g&eatlanb  Ccijoes 


A  sudden  cry  of  warning— 

The  people  stood  in  fright, 
When  a  pair  of  maddened  horses 

Came  dashing  into  sight, 
On  they  came,  like  two  mad  demons, 

Down  the  street  in  a  wild  race- 
Looking  through  the  carriage  window 

Was  a  smiling  baby's  face. 

Is  there  none  in  all  these  people, 

Who  the  baby's  life  will  save? 
Or  will  all  stand  in  horror, 

As  she  dashes  to  the  grave? 
Ah,  but  no!  there  on  the  corner, 

As  the  seconds  seem  to  fly,  t 
There  an  unknown  man  is  waiting — 

He  will  save  her  life  or  die, 

Yes,  there  is  one  strong  arm  lifted; 

One  brave  heart  in  the  street  alone, 
Mid  the  many  stands  a  hero, 

Fear  to  him  is  a  thing  unknown, 
Nearer  came  the  plunging  horses; 

Every  eye  was  watching  him, 
Can  he  stop  them?     Will  he  save  her? 

Hearts  stood  still  and  eyes  grew  dim, 


Westlanb  <£ct)0fs  53 


Rushing  forward  in  the  roadway. 

Then  the  reins  he  firmly  caught, 
And  the  frightened,  trembling  horses 

Back  up  on  their  haunches  brought, 
Then  the  people  gathered  'round  him, 

For  the  danger  all  seemed  o'er; 
Still  the  horses,  frightened  madly, 

Try  to  break  away  once  more. 

When  the  baby  has  been  rescued 

By  him  from  the  dangerous  place, 
Then,  again,  the  beasts  gain  freedom, 

Then,  again,  their  maddened  race, 
Pli'mging  forward,  rushing  onward, 

Like  the  wild  things  of  the  storm, 
Leaving  trampled,  in  the  roadway, 

A  poor,  mangled,  bleeding  form. 

"Who  was  he?"  the  people  wondered, 

Where  he  came  from  none  could  say, 
Thus  a  hobo's  life  was  ended 

In  a  land  of  strangers,  far  away, 
A  gentle  lady  knelt  beside  him— 

He  gave  his  life  her  child  to  save, 
And  many  tender  hearts  did  follow 

The  hobo  miner  to  his  grave, 

NOTK     A  hobo  miner,  sis  a  rule,  is  a  good  fellow,  but  is  uf- 
flicted  with  wanderlust. 


54 


THE  HORSE  THIEF 

Summer  winds  were  softly  blowing: 

And  the  clouds  were  passing  o'er, 
Casting  shadows  in  the  valley, 

On  the  river's  rocky  shore, 
Standing  'neath  the  swaying  willows, 

With  their  horses  grazing  by, 
Was  a  group  of  silent  cowboys, 

Where  they  brought  a  youth  to  die, 

Young  and  fair  he  stood  among  them, 

With  a  face  a  girl  might  own; 
Pleading  eyes  upturned  to  heaven; 

Bloodless  lips  that  softly  moan. 
All  were  silent,  he  was  praying, 

Murmuring  words  that  sounded  strange- 
They  recalled  a  mother's  teaching 

Long  forgotten  on  the  range- 
Then  the  leader,  stepping  forward, 

With  a  husky  voice  did  speak, 
While  something  like  a  tear  drop 

Glistened  on  his  swarthy  cheek, 
"Boys,"  he  said,  with  faltering  accent, 

"It  might  be  that  he  is  right; 
"Somewhere  maybe  his  old  mother 

"Waits  for  her  boy  tonight," 


<£cf)oes;  55 


"Let  us  go  and  talk  it  over, 

'"Fore  we  lay  him  'neath  the  sod; 
"He  has  set  me  off  a  thinking, 

''When  he  tells  of  home  and  God, 
"It  may  be  truth  that  he  is  telling, 

"That  the  horse  he  never  stole, 
"Think  well,  boys,  before  you  harm  him— 

"Hasty  deeds  concern  the  soul," 

IV! any  years  since  then  have  vanished, 

Long  the  prairie  flowers  have  waved 
O'er  the  grave  of  that  grim  leader, 

Who  somebody's  darling  saved, 
In  a  distant  eastern  city, 

An  aged  woman  kneels  to  pray, 
For  the  man  who  saved  her  boy-' 

Was  it  justice?    Who  will  say? 

Where  they're  making  up  the  records 
In  the  big  book  up  above, 

Will  the  good  Saint  find  it  written; 

"This  soul  saved  by  a  mother's  love?" 

This  is  told  of  early  justice, 
Far  out  in  the  west  they  say, 

Before  the  day  of  law  and  order- 
It's  a  tale  of  yesterday! 

NOTK     The  law  of  the  range. 


56  ttUestlanb  Ccijotfi 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

A  monument  marks  the  soldiers  grave, 

For  he  was  a  leader  of  men; 
The  vain  old  world  will  sing  his  praise— 

His  name  an  historical  gem, 
Yet  greater  than  all  of  the  soldiers  that  fall, 

Are  the  mothers  and  wives  of  them. 

In  the  book  that  tells  his  fame, 

Why  not  tell  his  mother's  name? 
The  woman  who  gave  the  soldier  life, 

The  mother,  the  sister,  the  soldier's  wife? 
Her  name  to  me  is  greater  far 

Than  all  of  the  world's  great  heroes  are, 

A  mother  dies,  a  child  to  save, 
Yet  no  monument  marks  her  grave; 

A  mother  will  send  her  boy  to  fame, 
Still  the  world  knows  not  her  name, 

The  soldier  gets  all  the  honors,  when 
They  are  due  to  mothers  and  wives  of  men, 


€ti)Qt&  57 


THE  MUD  DIGGER 

There  is  a  town  in  Arizona, 

Down  toward  the  Mexican  line, 
Where  men  are  called  mud  diggers, 

They  who  labor  in  the  mine, 
We  can  see  them  night  and  morning, 

On  the  roadways  and  the  trails, 
Some  to  work  and  some  returning, 

And  they  all  have  dinner  pails, 

A  word  of  jest  for  one  another, 

When  they  pass  upon  the  street, 
A  helping  for  a  luckless  brother, 

Whom  in  need  they  chance  to  meet— 
We  may  call  them  all  mud  diggers, 

If  they  have  the  dinner  can, 
But  who  will  gainsay  the  statement 

That  mud  digger  means  a  man? 

Just  like  boys  whose  hearts  are  carefree, 

In  the  shaft  house  where  they  stand 
Waiting  for  the  cage  to  lower, 

With  their  carbide  lamps  in  hand; 
Youths  among  them  from  the  ranches, 

And  men  who  near  the  long  last  trail; 
Generous  hearted,  old  mud  diggers— 

Their  emblem  is  the  dinner  pail, 


58  aaU'siLinb  Ccljors 


The  jewel  that  glitters  in  its  splendor 

There  on  yonder  beauty  now 
Is  cheap  beside  the  sweat  that  glistens 

On  the  honest  miner's  brow, 
Many  a  noble  minded  fellow 

Is  just  a  mucker  in  the  mine, 
In  the  thriving  copper  city 

Down  toward  the  Mexican  line. 


NOTK     Miners  in  ttu-  i-uppcr  mint's    »f    Ari/ona    an-    some 
times  called  Mud  Diggers. 


59 


THE  FUGITIVE 

Ye  traced  me  o'er  the  desert  wide, 
Ye  traced  me  on  the  mountain  side, 
Through  the  forest,  o'er  the  flood, 
Ye  have  shown  your  lust  for  blood- 
Still  ye  dare  not  venture  near 
Now  that  I'm  surrounded  here, 

Like  a  beast,  far  from  his  den, 

A  wild  thing  hunted  down  by  men 

For  some  foul  crime  ye  say  was  done- 

Ye  who  are  many,  I  but  one, 

An  unknown  stranger,  that  was  all, 

So  onto  me  the  blame  did  fall, 

Now,  beneath  the  sunny  sky, 
I  am  here  prepared  to  die; 
Beware,  man  hunters,  come  not  near; 
For  this  life  of  mine  the  price  is  dear, 
Blood  for  blood,  says  the  law  sublime, 
Someone  is  accused  for  every  crime, 

Though  innocent,  some  one  must  die, 

The  law  of  blood  to  satisfy; 

Ye  boast  of  justice  in  the  land, 

Of  the  relentless,  iron  hand; 

Now  come  and  take  me,  if  you  can, 

Come  and  fight  me,  man  to  man. 


60 


THE  FUNERAL  RANGE 

In  a  place  they  call  Ghost  Canyon, 

Down  in  the  Funeral  Range, 
Where  the  hot  winds  from  Death  Valley 

Seem  to  whisper  stones  strange; 
Where  bleached  bones  of  old  prospectors 

Are  strewn  along  the  line, 
Down  toward  the  Skeleton  Peak 

On  the  road  to  the  Coffin  Mine- 
One  night  we  camped  in  a  gulley 

Where  the  thorny  cactus  grow, 
Where  Peg  Leg  Smith  and  Frenchy 

Camped  long  years  ago, 
We  found  a  pile  of  nuggets, 

In  the  old  abandoned  drift, 
When  we  went  to  work  at  midnight— 

To  work  on  the  grave  yard  shift, 

When  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  desert, 

We  heard  the  coyotes  yell, 
We  thought  of  souls  in  torture, 

We  thought  of  the  fiends  of  hell, 
You  may  say  that  we  were  cowards, 

Because  our  blood  ran  cold — • 
When  we  saw  a  phantom  coming 

Like  a  goblin  of  days  of  old, 


6V 


It  moved  toward  us  o'er  the  sand, 

And  then  began  to  speak; 
The  voice  was  low  and  shaky, 

Like  one  who  is  old  and  weak, 
With  a  bony  hand  uplifted 

He  said  to  me,  "Behold, 
"The  Mogul  of  Death  Valley; 

"The  guardian  of  the  gold," 

We  did  not  linger,  mister, 

There  on  the  grave  yard  shift, 
With  his  ghostship  a  prowling 

In  that  old  abandoned  drift, 
We  said  "good  bye"  to  Death  Valley 

"Good  bye"  to  the  Funeral'  Range— 
If  anyone  wants  the  Coffin  Mine 

They  can  take  it  and  keep  the  change! 

If  you  doubt  what  I  have  written, 
If  the  truth  you  would  gainsay, 
Go  yourself  into  Death  Valley- 
See  the  bones  along  the  way 
Where  the  winds  from  Hell's  Half  Acre 

Seem  to  whisper  stories  strange- 
Go  yourself  into  Ghost  Canyon, 
Go  into  the  Funeral  Range, 

NOTE     Ghost  Canyon  and  the  Coffin  Mine  are  myths.     The 
Fum-ntl  Range  is  near  Death  Valley,  California. 


62  i&kstlaiit)  Ccljoes 


A  HOBO'S  FAREWELL 

'Neath  a  western  water  tank, 

A  dying  hobo  lay; 
His  pal  was  sitting  near  him, 

Twas  a  dismal  winter  day, 
'There  is  something  I  would  tell  you," 

The  weary  fellow  said, 
"If  you  would  sit  up  nearer 

"And  bathe  my  aching  head," 

"For  the  time  is  drawing  near 

"When  I  must  say  adieu; 
"I  have  a  pass  on  the  Limited 

"And  I  will  ride  it  through 
"They  do  not  blow  a  whistle, 

"Nor  ring  a  warning  bell, 
"There  is  just  one  side  track  on  the  road- 

"And  that  is  a  place  called  Hell!" 

Then  his  voice  grew  fainter, 

His  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears, 
For  his  thoughts  had  wandered 

Back  to  other  years, 
From  his  bosom  pocket 

He  took  with  tender  care 
A  picture  old  and  faded, 

And  a  lock  of  old  gray  hair! 


Ccfjoes  03 


"Good  bye,  mother  dear,"  he  murmured, 

"I  am  tired  of  the  rods, 
"I  am  going  to  join  the  angels 

"In  the  jungle  of  the  Gods, 
"Take  this  picture,  pal,"  he  whispered, 

"And  this  lock  of  old  grey  hair- 
"Sometime  when  you  are  in  St,  Louis 

"You  will  find  my  mother  there," 

"Take  this  message  to  her,  comrade; 

"That  she  never  understood; 
"Say  that  every  place  I  wandered, 

"I  was  trying  to  make  good." 
He  kissed  the  picture,  old  and  faded, 

Kissed  the  lock  of  old  gray  hair- 
Murmured,  "Pal,  the  train  is  coming; 

"Aclios,  I  will  soon  be  there," 


64  JLtttatUnD  Ccbots 


DON'T  BE  A  KNOCKER 

Don't  be  a  knocker  whatever  you  do; 

Though  down  and  out  and  feeling  blue, 

Ditch  your  grouch;  shake  your  frown; 

If  your  heart  is  right  you  won't  stay  down, 

Do  not  kick  if  times  are  hard, 

You  are  not  alone  in  the  game,  old  pard. 

Be  like  the  fellow  who  goes  along, 

With  a  smile  and  jest  when  things  go  wrong, 

A  little  praise  is  good  to  hear, 
A  helping  hand,  a  word  of  cheer; 
Minor  faults  we  must  forego, 
None  are  perfect  here,  you  know; 
The  best  of  men  are  apt  to  fall, 
But  a  knocker  is  despised  by  ail- 
So  do  not  sit  around  and  whine; 
Be  a  booster,  fall  in  line, 

Remember,  others  have  their  troubles,  too; 

Ups  and  downs  the  same  as  you, 

The  game  of  see-saw  we  all  play. 

Up  tomorrow,  down  today, 

Do  not  ask  what  you  can't  give, 

But  live  and  let  your  neighbors  live, 

Of  all  the  pests  beneath  the  sun, 

A  chronic  kicker  is  the  one, 


65 


MY  BEST  FRIEND,  ADIOS 

Twas  only  a  grave  by  the  wayside, 

Only  a  grass  covered  mound — 
There  inscribed  on  the  headstone 

This  simple  sentence  I  found, 
Written  by  hands  unskillful, 

The  lines  uneven  and  close; 
"Gone  to  rest  on  the  other  side; 

"My  best  friend,  adios," 

As  I  read  on  the  time  worn  granite, 

The  words  half  blotted  by  years, 
I  thought  of  the  good  old  timers— 

The  brave  old  pioneers, 
In  fancy  again  I  saw  them, 

As  of  old,  when  friendship  was  close, 
Bidding  a  comrade  a  last  farewell, 

Bidding  a  friend  "adios," 

Now  they  have  vanished  forever, 

The  old  pioneers  of  the  west; 
We  see  here  and  there  by  the  wayside 

Their  silent  places  of  rest, 
The  sentence  pathetic  and  simple, 

By  an  unskilled  hand  written  close, 
Tells  what  the  old  timers'  hearts  were; 

"My  best  friend,  adios!" 


06  WeatUinfc  Ccljoes 


THE  GRAND  CANYON 

On  the  rim  of  the  Canyon  Grand, 

Where  the  zephyrs  play,  on  the  brink  I  stand, 

And  look  o'er  the  chasm  deep  and  wide, 

To  the  purple  crest  on  the  other  side, 

J  see,  like  a  winding  thread  bel'ow, 

The  Colorado  in  its  flow; 

The  mists  arising  o'er  the  falls, * 

Like  grim  phantoms,  scale  the  waifs; 

Silently  they  mount  on  high 

And  fade  away  in  the  tranquil  sky, 

I  think  as  I  see  the  shadows  fall, 

As  I  hear  the  voice  of  the  river  call 

Of  a  vanquished  people  who  left  their  trace 

Of  another  time,  of  another  race, 

They  perhaps  in  ages  gone 

Looked  on  the  scene,  as  I  have  clone, 

And  saw  the  shadows  at  twilight  dim, 

And  the  bright  stars  gleam  o'er  the  distant  rim; 

Saw  the  picture  wondrous  fair, 

That  God's  own  hand  has  painted  there! 

Oh,  mighty  river,  in  thy  flow, 

But  like  a  winding  thread  below 

Very  soon  in  the  future  near 

Ihy  laugh  we  will  no  longer  hear- 


Relentless  minds  will  soon  subdue, 
I  he  hand  of  man  will  bridle  you; 
Your  freedom  then  will  be  the  price 
Of  making  a  desert  a  paradise! 
Ambitious  man  will  make  his  home, 
Where  unmolested  the  wild  things  roam, 
Beautiful  river,  wild  and  free, 
From  dizzy  heights  I  look  on  thee; 

Wonderful  Canyon,  deep  and  wide, 
Where  silent,  ghost-like  shadows  glide; 
Grand'  old  cliff,  in  purple  dressed, 
With  glowing  colors  on  its  crest— 
The  daylight  fades  and  the  scene  grows  dim, 
The  bright  stars  peep  o'er  the  distant  rim; 
Thus  do  I,  a  mortal  clod, 
See  the  glorious  work  of  God. 


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